The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(59)

Ronan drove, since he knew where they were going. He didn’t tell Gansey why he knew where to go, and Gansey didn’t ask.

The sun had gone down by the time they arrived at the old county fairground, tucked away on a back road east of Henrietta. The site had not been used to host a fair since the county fair had run out of money two years previous. Now it was a great overgrown field studded with floodlights and strung with tattered bunting made colorless by months of exposure.

Ordinarily, the abandoned fairground was pitch-black at night, out of reach of the lights of Henrietta and far from any houses. But tonight, the floodlights splashed sterile white light over the grass, illuminating the restless forms of more than a dozen cars. There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night, Ronan thought. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous. The sight of them knocked his heartbeat askew.

As Ronan turned into the old drive, the headlights illuminated the familiar form of Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi, its black grille gaping. The trip of his pulse became a kick drum.

“Don’t say anything stupid to him,” he told Gansey. Already the beat of his stereo was being drowned out by Kavinsky’s, the bass pulsing up through the ground itself.

Gansey rolled his sleeves up and studied his hand as he made a fist and released it. “What’s stupid?”

It was hard to tell with Kavinsky.

To their left, two cars loomed out of the darkness, one red and one white, heading right toward each other. Neither vehicle flinched from the impending collision. Automotive chicken. At the last moment, the red car swerved, skidding sideways, and the white blared a horn. A guy half-hung out of the passenger seat of the white car, clinging to the roof with one hand and flipping the bird with the other. Dust wallowed round them both. Delighted screams filled the space between engine noises.

On the other side of this game, a tired Volvo was parked beneath a tattered, fallen string of flagged bunting. It was lit from within, like an entrance to hell. It took a moment to register that it was on fire, or at least working up to it. Boys stood around the Volvo, drinking and smoking, their forms distorted and dark against the smoldering upholstery. Goblins around a bonfire.

Something inside Ronan was anxious and moving, angry and restive. The fire ate him from the inside.

He pulled the BMW up to the Mitsubishi, nose to nose. Now he saw that Kavinsky had already been playing: the right side of the car was shockingly mutilated and crumpled. That felt like a dream — no way was the Mitsubishi so mangled; it was immortal. Kavinsky himself stood near it, bottle in hand, shirtless, the floodlights erasing the ribs from his concave torso. When he saw the BMW, he threw the bottle at the hood. It splintered on the metal, shivering glass and liquid everywhere.

“Jesus,” Gansey said, in either surprise or admiration. At least they hadn’t brought the Camaro.

Hauling up the parking brake, Ronan threw open the door. The air reeked of melting plastic and deceased clutches and, beneath it all, the warm scent of pot. It was noisy, though the symphony was constructed of so many instruments that it was hard to identify any individual timbres.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, in the exact same way that he’d just invoked Jesus.

“Are we doing this?” Ronan replied.

Gansey threw open his door. Gripping the roof of the car, he slid himself out. Even that gesture, Ronan noted, was wild-Gansey, Gansey-on-fire. Like he pulled himself from the car because ordinary climbing out was too slow.

This was going to be a night.

The fire inside Ronan was what kept him alive.

Catching a glimpse of Ronan heading straight for him, Kavinsky spread a hand over his flat rib cage. “Hey, lady. This is a substance party. Nobody’s in unless you brought a substance.”

By way of reply, Ronan clasped one hand round Kavinsky’s throat and the other around his shoulder, and hurled him tidily over the hood of the Mitsubishi. For punctuation, he rejoined him on the opposite side and slammed his fist into Kavinsky’s nose.

As Kavinsky climbed back up, Ronan showed him his bloody knuckles. “Here’s your substance.”

Kavinsky wiped his nose on his bare arm, leaving a red streak. “Hey, man, you don’t have to be so f*cking antisocial.”

Gansey, at Ronan’s elbow, held up his hand in the universal sign for Down, boy. “I don’t want to keep you from your revels,” Gansey said, cold and glorious, “so I’m just going to say this: Stay out of my place.”

Kavinsky replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Babe, get me a smoke.”

The last part seemed to be directed to a girl who lolled in the passenger seat of the crunched Mitsubishi, her eyes deeply stoned. She did not dignify his order with a response.

Ronan flicked out one of the fake IDs.

Kavinsky smiled broadly at his own work. With his hollow cheeks, he was a ghoul in this light. “You mad because I didn’t leave you a mint, too?”

“No, I’m angry because you trashed my apartment,” Gansey said. “You should be glad I’m here and not at the police station.”

“Whoa, man,” Kavinsky said. “Whoa, whoa. I can’t tell which of us is high. Whoa. I didn’t trash your place.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Gansey replied, and there was just a hint of a glacial laugh in his voice. It was a terrifying and wonderful laugh, Ronan thought, because Gansey had measured out only contempt and not a touch of humor.